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THE TENDER MEMORIES

THE TENDER MEMORIES

LAVAL

I 9 I 8

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PORTLAND MAINE

THE MOSHER PRESS

MDCCCCXX

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COPYRIGHT

THOMAS BIRD MOSHER

1920

JUH 19 5320
B)GI.A570407

\ A j0y I

THE TENDER MEMORIES

THE TENDER MEMORIES
I

OUR days since the operation
and I have been brought to
Laval — my leg in a metal
trough. The journey was not
as painful as in anticipation. The move-
ment of the train cradled me to sleep before
midnight and when I opened my eyes the
sun was shining. Through the open door,
my stretcher being on the floor, I saw the
poem of Normandy slipping by. What
green uncanny stillness after the cyclonic
devastation of the battlefields! How, I
dreamingly wonder, have these trees and
cottages remained so calm while a few miles
away not the least bush but shows a ghastly

THE TENDER MEMORIES

commotion. Perhaps the ancient serenity
of Northern France, driven from home with
the mothers and children, took refuge here
and doubled the native tranquillity. The
hushed and vanishing woods are lovely to
wounded eyes. When the long train stops
the jar and noise are not unpleasant — for are
we not riding away, away from Death?

An orderly comes through the train dis-
tributing hot chocolate from a huge pitcher.
I find my cup; in doing so I see that my
coat (which is my blanket) is covered with
fresh blood. I look up at the slumping
stretcher gently swinging above me and
realize what has happened.

"Chocolate?"

"The comrade has had a hemorrhage —
see — I'm wet with blood."

The orderly, stooping, fills my cup and
straightening his back regards the soldier
over my head.

THE TENDER MEMORIES

"Qa ne va pas?" I hear him ask.

No answer.

He puts down his steaming pitcher and
uncovers the face of the soldier.

"My God! he is dead."

A tremor runs through the tiers of
wounded. The comrade opposite me on
the floor gets up on his elbow.

"Dead — is he dead?"

The dewy poem of Normandy slipping by.

"He was alive at three o'clock."

Passing into the adjoining car the orderly
fetches a little spectacled Doctor. The
Doctor gives one look — touches the soldier.
The blood drips on my coat.

"Died at sunrise — put him off at the
next station."

A sigh or two, but no one speaks for the
rest of the journey. I count the slow drops
falling heavily from the swaying canvas down
to my knees. They wink as they fall.

THE TENDER MEMORIES

At Laval I am lifted out and left on the
dusty platform for a long time. The dead
comrade is slanted out a little roughly. His
helmet covers his face but I see the curly
hair of his beard on his throat. Two young
soldiers carry me through the crowd, put
me into an ambulance with three others,
and we go jolting over the cobble-stones.

"Slower for God's sake," one calls to
the heedless chauffeur.

With a bump we enter a courtyard and
are taken out and left on the mossy flags.
I am one of over a hundred tired victims
waiting to be admitted to the hospital. The
sun is in my face and I pull my cap over
my eyes. A sister in a great bonnet brings
me a drink of water. Hours pass and night
is falling when I am taken in — as I go
through the wide door of the ward I read
" Salle Verdun " printed on the panel. An
old woman and one of the stretcher bearers

THE TENDER MEMORIES

undress me with considerable awkwardness
and put me into a clean blue shirt. By
placing the stretcher on a level with the
bed and with the assistance of another
soldier, my trough and I are moved on to
the mattress and covered up to the chin.
Divine moment! I relax into a lap of fur
and satin. My shoulders and hands grow
warm and heavy. Vaguely I hear bells
and voices, footsteps, receding — always
receding.

II

"T HAVE died and this is eternity," I
thought awaking suddenly. In an
even greyness the beds seem to repeat one
after another to some far horizon. The faint
pulse of an infinitely distant sea accents
the deadness. A clock somewhere on the
shore strikes "two " like a solemn voice say-
ing " Goodbye." Gradually my senses float
to the surface and I remember I am in the
hospital at Laval. Pulling myself to the
edge of the bed I lean over and examine
the little table on which I dimly see my
watch, cup, pocket-knife, etc. Then I feel
along the floor as far as I can reach. My
hand paws the emptiness. I sink back on
the pillow and study to forget my dilemma.
Not a sound from the sleepers. My eyes
grown accustomed to the summer darkness
realize the comrades in the beds at either

THE TENDER MEMORIES

side. The hair of the man to my right
looks like ink spilt on the pillow. I am ill
at ease. By drawing up the trough I man-
age to sit up in bed and look around.
Surely there is someone to aid the blesse
who is unable to help himself. Nobody.

"Can't you sleep?" a voice on my left.

"I need a pistolet."

" Thirty-seven i" the voice calls.

''I've got no legs" — remarks the voice
in a lower tone. "Thirty-seven ! "

"What is it?" comes sleepily from the
other side of the ward.

"Pistolet — twenty-four," answers the
voice. A sound of someone getting out of
bed — the pat, pat of naked feet over the
floor, and a phantom stands beside me. His
arm I notice is bound to his chest.

"You fellows drink too much Pinard,"
he good naturedly remarks, passing me the
pistolet.

THE TENDER MEMORIES

"You have saved my honor," I say with
an unseen smile.

"Tant mieux!" And Thirty-seven pats
back to his dreams.

Ill

*'^^^00D morning, everybody." It is
^^ seven o'clock and the old woman I
had seen the day before has entered the
ward and is lifting off her queer little
bonnet.

"Good morning, Grand 'mere," runs from
bed to bed and makes quite a riotous wel-
come. Grand 'mbre distributes the "West-
ern Light," and as her worn hands detach
my paper by my cot side, I notice hers is
an agreeable face — old and brown and very
wrinkled — but old in honest years and
wrinkled with kindly thoughts. To the
arrivals of yesterday she gives an especially
tender smile — and they are less lonely.

Some of the windows are open and the
personality of a happy child comes in —
fresh, scented, golden haired.

THE TENDER MEMORIES

Grand 'mbre trots away and trots back
with the bread and coffee. From experi-
ence I know I cannot touch my tin cup of
boiling liquid (it has no handle) until it has
stood a while. I look about and gather my
first impression of my new home. Each
bed is occupied and has a number tacked
on the wall above. We are twenty blesses
in the high studied schoolroom of an ancient
convent. The walls are bare and white
except to the south and the sunrise, where
the green and gold pictures are stately win-
dows giving on to the garden. Between
the two southern windows hangs the sculp-
tured image of a delicate blesse — His
wounds eloquently bleeding. The twenty
beds are of simple iron structure. At the
head of each stands a little table littered
with soldier clutter. I am pleased that my
bed is near a window. I can see the dew
on the grass and watch the amber circles

THE TENDER MEMORIES

dancing on the lower branches. My sky
is a small blue flag. I look at the com-
rade who spoke to me in the night. He
is young — twenty perhaps — brown haired,
nondescript, friendly. The mound that he
makes on his bed is no longer than a little
boy. He says "good morning" to me and
smiles. The man on my right is a hand-
some southerner. His pink shirt is unfas-
tened showing a proud and hairy chest.
His right arm is bandaged to the shoulder.
I glance down the line of beds on both sides
of the ward — pleasant faces that I know so
well — the sweet-eyed poilus of all ages each
as I have lived and fought beside at the
front.

Thirty-seven passes along collecting the
cups. I drink my coffee at a gulp. My
first day at Laval is inaugurated.

IV

T TAD I died on the battlefield suffering
would have been unknown to me. It
is in the hospitals that the poilu is crucified.
The Doctor, a genial giant with a red neck
and large hands, has passed through the
ward attended by the amorous head-nurse.
Soon after their departure two men arrive
with a rolling stretcher and one following
another in rapid succession, we are whirled
down the cool corridor to the dressing sta-
tion. While I am en route the speed with
which I am borne makes me a little afraid
of the corners. The dressing station is a
painful little room crowded with semi nude
soldiers. Two are flat on the tables sur-
rounded by nurses. Others are unwinding
the stained bandages from their wounds.
Some are ready and waiting, resignedly
gazing into the crude hollows. The air is

THE TENDER MEMORIES

Stale and smells of suffering. Through the
closed window I see the lilac shadow of a
tree printed on an old religious wall. There
are red flowers by a curving path.

When my turn comes I am put on to the
table — a white table discolored by the
hastily wiped dripping of our blood. At
the lower end is a sliding cover the edges
of which are crusted and livid. The man
on the other table screams — his shoulder
has been blown away. A nice woman with
full lips unstraps my trough and lifts out my
leg. It might be a log wrapped in snow.
The wool and bandages removed, the Giant
raises my leg to a right angle with my heart.
My wound is under my right knee and I can
feel the hot blood running up my thigh.
The last englued cloth is torn off and the
washing and poking begin while I am con-
scious of a sharp tooth biting into my brain.
I can feel my fingers pressing through the

THE TENDER MEMORIES

table. One of the women asks me a ques-
tion or two — and noting my accent says:

"But you are not French."

"I am an American — a volunteer in the
French army."

"Qa, c'est chic," and her smile is a
recognition.

"Ah ! but I am far from chic as a
blesse — I suffer ."

" Mais non, mais non ; it is almost fin-
ished— your dressing."

The amorous head-nurse prepares a drain.
I watch her with an insane desire that she
may drop dead before she has fished out
from the tall glass jar the long purple
"meche" for which, while smiling on the
Giant, she is angling with her steel pincers.
Everybody holds my leg while the " meche "
is forced into the wound. A bitter taste
suffuses my mouth and my teeth chatter.
I hear voices calming the victim on the

THE TENDER MEMORIES

table beside me. Then the nice woman
wraps me again in wool and cotton rib-
bons and straps me into the trough. I am
whirled around the corners to Salle Verdun.
Grand 'mere adjusts me in my bed — and
under the hem of the sheet I hide my
ignoble tears.

/"^ RAND'M£RE takes the boy who has

^^ lost both legs, in her arms like a baby
and puts him down tenderly on the stretcher.
He waves his hand to the ward as he rides
away.

"Ah! that is sad," Grand' mere is saying,
"he so young and gay. Pray God my
Joseph comes home on his legs — Joseph
is so fond of walking — and what would
become of the farm — with only Marie-
Louise to come and go — Little Jesus, pro-
tect my Joseph."

"Has Joseph a farm?" asks number
twenty-six who has walked back from his
dressing and is getting into bed.

"Why, yes, along the river — and by
working early and late Joseph and Marie-
Louise have done very well — until the war
came — the place is wasting now."

THE TENDER MEMORIES

"Like all the other farms, Grand 'mbre."
"Mais oui — I know well — like all the
others — with the men at the front —
Dame! I was proud of my Joseph when
he marched away — mais oui — I was proud
and so was Marie-Louise — Little Jesus pro-
tect my Joseph."

And so Grand 'mere chatters as she trots
about doing a multitude of little affairs —
and in her garrulousness I gradually emerge
from my anguish. I soon come to think she
consciously sought to entertain us — for she
was never so loquacious as after our cruci-
fixions. And Joseph and Marie-Louise, his
wife, became inmates of our ward. They
were Grand 'mere's subject. We knew all
about them. We read Joseph's postals.
We consoled his mother when he was in
battle and rejoiced with her when he was
"en repos." "Little Jesus protect my
Joseph," somehow made us feel that we,

THE TENDER MEMORIES

the undead, were included in her hourly
prayer.

When the boy without any legs came
back he was singing about his Sunday
breeches. And the two men rolling the
stretcher brought a gale of laughter into
the ward.

" My breeches have changed since I was young,
My beautiful Sunday breeches."

Gently Grand 'mere put him singing into
bed and "Little Jesus" and "my Joseph"
got mixed up in her queer dry laughter.

Then the soup comes in and Grand 'mere
forgets everything in the happiness of feed-
ing her "family."

24

VI

'T^HERE is no arrangement for lighting
-*■ our ward and we have no candles so I
am free to watch the day through its atten-
uations of decay die like a poet. Towards
late afternoon I amuse myself by finding the
analogy, and think of Keats in ivory and
mauve, and Shelley in gold and blue, and
Verlaine in sad splendors. These August
days perish like that. Suddenly a graver
stillness on the walls, and the branches in
our pictures are become vaguely blue and
lifeless. My flag of sky trembles with
golden butterflies. The footfalls on the
garden gravel squeak rhythmically, dis-
tinctly. The twenty beds are in a trance;
if a comrade speaks his voice is lower than
at midday. Some one puts a book aside —
I can almost hear his story going to sleep.
I watch — a mist is rising through the lines

THE TENDER MEMORIES

on the floor. It gathers under the beds
furtively. Grey foxes slink noiselessly into
the corners. Grand 'mere has gone home
to lonely Marie-Louise. The Christ on the
wall wastes — the gold in His curls shim-
mers— the blood in His palms is black. I
close my eyes and go away — other twilights
invade me — green spaces of meditation on
the battlefields. A steeple shakes out a
basket of invisible flowers — they fade in
our dreams. The butterflies drift, vanish.
The windows are solemn landscapes in a
brown gallery. Slowly, timidly, the night
enters the ward and creeps from bed to
bed. Only the ceiling floats white and
high. The handsome comrade on my right
puts out his arm and just touches my pillow.
Darkness. No one speaks for a long time.
From the hidden moon falls a phantom of
silver snow. Shadows slip along the ceil-
ing. Enchantment is in the garden. The

26

THE TENDER MEMORIES

boy without legs sings to himself — we listen
— we begin to hum the refrain — two voices,
three voices, a chorus rises.

VII

TT is only a few days before I am familiar
with my comrades and love them quite
frankly like brothers. We call each other
by our first name — all except Thirty-seven
who responds to his number. It is a strange
largefamilyandGrand 'mere a kindly Mother
Hubbard. The boy without legs is Louis and
he is the fountain of most of our gaiety.
Paul, who is Louis' neighbor and against
the wall, never laughs although he seems to
listen to Louis all day long — listen and
smoke — but Paul's story is very sad.
Victor is the man to my right — a volun-
teer from Marseille. He was a gunner
and his hand was torn off by a shell com-
ing from one of our batteries. He was
wounded the day before I was and in the
same neighborhood. "It was dusk," he
said, "and we had just placed our cannon,

28

THE TENDER MEMORIES

nicely screened by tall trees, when orders
came to pound a certain ravine. Hell
roared — and I and four others fell — two
were scattered to bird crumbs. The others
lay in a bloody group. 'What has hap-
pened?' the Captain shouted — and then we
realized we had been hit by a shell from the
battery in our rear. The cannon had been
badly pointed and its first shell encounter-
ing a heavy branch of one of the trees
had exploded almost over our heads. My
God! how the Captain swore. I heard him
between the thunder as I was carried away
on a stretcher. My hand was blown off
above the wrist — clean as though cut by
a knife. But it didn't begin to sing much
until the next morning. However it is quiet
enough now," and he added giving a wink
and waving his left arm above his curly
head, "one arm is long enough for any
girl."

THE TENDER MEMORIES

Jean is beside Victor and his head is in
a multifold bandage. He has been badly
burned by the gas. His head resembles a
great snowball. One eye is free to look at
the ceiling — and Jean smokes from morning
until night. Victor calls him the mummy and
daily threatens to bury him under a pyramid
of pillows.

Next to Paul is Georges, a big fellow who
has sacrificed both hands. His joke is to
cry out a general invitation to play ball.
Thirty-seven is very devoted to Georges and
I often see him arranging a book between
his stumps and putting a long paper knife
in his teeth by means of which Georges
turns the leaves of romance.

Andre and Pierre and Nicolas, Alfred,
Marc and Henri, I know them all and
sooner or later inquire with interest their
story and the progression of their healing
wounds. Each has his intimate bitter

THE TENDER MEMORIES

moment, each adds his softer or louder
note to our chorus. Along the opposite
wall the same rosary of wounds. Jacques
has given an eye — Desire an arm — Gaston
a leg — and so on from gift to gift. C 'est
la guerre, et c'est pour la belle France. We
are her farmers — her vine-dressers — her
mechanics — her masons. We are humble
victims refused by Death, and when we are
not homesick and quiet we are talkative and

gay.

VIII

'' I ''HE Giant and his fascinated attendant
consider us every other morning and
after their hurried visit we are rushed on the
stretcher to the dressing station and yell or
grind our teeth. One day while Louis was
being tortured I talked with Paul. His is
a very sad story. Paul is a musician and
gained his livelihood at Lyon playing the
violin in a theatre orchestra. His right
arm is in a bad way. A bullet has severed
a nerve and the Giant will only say, "per-
haps," whenever Paul questions him. Some
days he is quite hopeful and feels he has
merely to wait patiently to hear again the
consolation of his violin. Other days when
he remains silent hour after hour I know his
hopes are drowned in an abyss of discour-
agement. I try to think of something to
say — but it is very hard. He told me his

THE TENDER MEMORIES

father plays the flute and that his sister is
quite clever at the piano. Their Sunday
morning musicales were the delight of his
week. He loves "Werther" and "Car-
men." One night I heard him sobbing
discreetly and called over Louis's bed to
ask if his arm was aching.

"My old friend," he said, "I hear them
tuning up in the theatre — and I am not
there."

After a silence he said, "What does a
man do in the evening if he cannot play a
violin?"

33

IX

WESTERDAY while I was shaving, la
Mere Superieure came into the ward
with twenty clean shirts piled on her arm.
The long dangling chains hanging from
her thick waist made a rattle as she moved
from bed to bed. Each man is given a
shirt — and Victor insists on having a pink
one. La Mbre Superieure laughs and I
notice she has no teeth and very red gums.
Victor begins immediately to change his
shirt. La M^re Superieure turns her bon-
net toward me. Later la Soeur Angelique
appeared and distributed twenty large ging-
ham handkerchiefs. She is young and rosy
and only her black robe and coiffe seem
religiously inclined. Each blesse makes
some little pleasantry with la Soeur Ange-
lique as she passes delicately from bed to
bed. I am not surprised to see her linger

34

THE TENDER MEMORIES

beside Victor. He looks very handsome
and la Soeur Angelique finds a handker-
chief to match his shirt. She asks him
more questions about his wound than she
does the others. Suddenly she blushes as
though a worldly fancy had touched her
and quite abruptly leaves the ward. For
the rest of the day Victor has too much to
say to me about la Sceur Angelique, and
Grand 'mere overhearing one of his remarks
says,

"Will you be still, Victor."

•'But, Grand 'mere, she is so pretty."

"Dame, oui, and so good."

Victor laughs and runs his hand through
his hair. After dark that night while some
of us were singing he threw off his blanket
and sitting on the edge of his bed told me
the long story of his escapades in Marseille.
Smoking my pipe I find him sufficiently
interesting. These August nights are rest-
as

THE TENDER MEMORIES

less — perhaps it is the song always dying
away on one pillow — always caught up
again on another — perhaps it is the faint
odor from the garden that is so enervating

— perhaps . Victor is asleep on his back,

his knees making a pyramid. A star has
crossed my flag of sky — I fall asleep.

36

X

A T first I could not believe my eyes —
and then I realized — it was he — my
friend — my beloved Captain — coming down
the ward toward my bed. I had heard from
him within a week and knew he was in a
hospital at Dinard waiting to submit to a
second operation. And there he was walk-
ing toward me his back bent like a man who
is very tired. I pulled up my trough and
stretched out my arms.

"C'est toi, mon cher cadavre — c'est bien
toi— "

His honest eyes are dim as he gives his
soldier the accolade. Brushing away the
papers from the chair he sits down beside
me. I show him my trough and tell him
my story. He is a consolation and a sym-
pathy— his heart is in his voice.

THE TENDER MEMORIES

"But you, my Captain, how have you
come away from your hospital?"

"As soon as the fever following my sec-
ond operation left me, and I could get on
my coat I slipped away — I was anxious to
see you."

"And your wound?"

"HeaHng — see the great hump on my
back — I've a mile of dressing."

"But you are exhausted by this journey
to Laval."

"Not too much — I arrived last night
late — too late to come here — but I found
a bed — or rather a sofa — in a hotel parlor
and slept a little. I was at the hospital
door before it was opened."

"Et c'est toi, mon cher cadavre — c'est
toi— "

Cher cadavre — thus we had come to call
one another since living together at the
front. What days, what nights we have

THE TENDER MEMORIES

passed! What long sunlit and moonlit
marches from Artois to Lorraine! And
the black fatigue and the forlorn centuries
in the trenches! What luck that we are
alive — escaped from the putrefying shores
of Acheron !

He has only an hour to stay with me.
He walks away like a tired old man — he
is gone.

Noble Captain — in the years coming
over me — whatever sweetness they may
distill into the chambers of my heart shall
serve to embalm the memory of you — of
your visit to me — your soldier — wounded
at Laval.

39

XI

"TL est bien chic, votre Capitaine," Victor
remarks.

" Oui, mon ami."

"lis ne sont pas tous comme 9a."

"Non, mon ami."

"II etait votre copain avant la guerre.?"

"Mais, non, mon ami."

"II est de quel pays?"

"La Bretagne, mon ami."

"Duex fois Fran^ais, alors — n'est-ce-
pas?"

"Oui, mon ami."

And I light my pipe and pass the day in
a rainbow of reminiscence. How fast life
recedes — like a young eagle mounting the
clouds. A year — already a year.

I review my warrior days somewhat as
a stranger might after reading of them in

40

THE TENDER MEMORIES

a book. Veiled, yet so vivid, returns the
Paris afternoon when I enlisted in the
French Infantry and put on a blue uniform
and was given a gun. The week at the depot
of St. Malo. The month of hard training at
Menil-sur-Saulx learning to shoot, to throw
a grenade, to kill a dummy with a bayonet.
The first long march in the September
heat — the crossing the improvised bridge
in the moonless night. The hollow villages
seen by sunset as we pass through the
famous and silent country where France
won the victory of the Marne. New Year's
Eve waiting in the snow. The February
trenches — Spring — and the battle near
Mondidier the first week in June — Ah I my
Captain, shall we ever forget the beauty of
the landscape in which we fought that
battle.? The unpitying sun — the miles of
yellow wheat — the clover, larkspur, mustard,
poppies, bluets — and the crumpled dead —

THE TENDER MEMORIES

our dead — tumbled among them . We

trampled a field of thyme and its fresh odor
with the smell of powder survives in my
brain. The night in the bombarded and
grewsome ravine. The coming of the last
day — the attack — the crazy wall by the

disembowelled graveyard . And there

he was wounded.

Go softly, Memory, through that heroic
hour — so brave, so calm, he gave his last
command and on my shoulder — leaning
sideways — we left the exploding hell. You
were slid into an ambulance — smiUng and
bloody — and I was alone — alone.

Go softly, Memory, that I may not hear
you .

XII

"T A SOUPE" like "le jus" is always
■^^ piping hot but there is no more to be
said in its praise. Grand 'mere is distressed
at our restricted portions and at moments I
am sure she would gladly put her heart into
our war plates. Thinking to console our
sneaking hunger she talks incessantly and
softly — Grand 'mere's voice is very agree-
able— of "my Joseph's appetite." I sur-
mise he came honestly by his voracity, for
Grand 'mbre assures us that even when a
little boy he often ate her out of house and
home. Always the memory of Joseph at
home kindles a happiness in his mother's
eyes. No matter how many potatoes Marie-
Louise may cook, Joseph would eat them
all. No matter how much meat and bread
Grand 'mbre brought home in her basket,
Joseph would eat it all. Flocks of ducks

43

THE TENDER MEMORIES

and chickens perished for Joseph. When I
hear Grand 'mere talking about ducks and
chickens my mouth waters, and I decide to
arrange a little fete for my comrades. I talk
it over with Grand 'mere who is enchanted
at the scheme and frightened at the cost.
However, she is absent during the after-
noon and very flurried when the dinner
comes in. Four brown ducks on a large
platter and a bucket of salade. Salle Ver-
dun is excited and fragrant. Twenty blesses
dine like twenty kings. I lift my cup of
Pinard and cry, "Long live Grand 'mere
and Joseph!" A glad shout fills the air
and I see laughter and tears on Grand '-
mere's cheeks.

xiri

^"T^HIS afternoon it was so still in the
ward that I could hear the drip of
the fountain hidden in the breathless gar-
den. Not another sound — as though we
were twenty soldiers in a trance. Victor was
absorbed in reading a long letter from one
of his sweethearts, and Louis was asleep
with the "Western Light" over his face.
Most of us were on the fringe of dreams.
Paul, I could see, was tranquilly looking
through the ceiling. There come calm
interludes like this. I smoke and watch a
slumberous Chinaman in a silver coat per-
forming tricks. I don't kn ow when he came,
but there he is in velvet shoes, standing in
the centre of the ward, his legs wide apart.
His face is fiat and expressionless. With
infinite suavity he tosses a little porcelain
cup into the air — I watch it rise and turn

45

THE TENDER MEMORIES

and begin to fall. The Chinaman lifts his
head and blows — the cup vanishes. He
produces another cup exactly like the first
one and tosses it into the air — I watch it
rise and turn and begin to fall. Again the
Chinaman lifts his head — blows — and the
cup vanishes. The same trick over and
over, hour after hour, and I watching
through the azure lilies curling out of my
pipe.

XIV

/^^RAND'MfiRE is talking very fast,
^^ Paul is crying out loud and we are
all feeling sad. The Giant and his languid
nymph have been in three times to-day to
look at Paul's arm. Victor has whispered
to me that he was in the salle de panse-
ment this morning while Paul was on the
table. His arm is not doing very well — the
wound is become greenish and swollen. We
dare not think of that which is in our minds.
Toward night the Doctor comes in again.
No one speaks, not even Grand 'mere, while
the Nurse unwinds Paul's bandage. An
unpleasant odor drifts across Louis's bed to
me. The Giant leans down and begins to
talk hurriedly. I tremble hearing him say,
"My son, there is nothing else to do. It
is better to lose an arm than a life."

THE TENDER MEMORIES

The Nurse stands close to the Giant —
Grand 'mere has put her wrinkled old hand
on Paul 's head.

"No, Doctor, no, it is not possible, I
cannot, cannot, I am a musician, I play the
violin, no. Doctor, no."

The Nurse bandages the arm. I feel
sorry for the Giant — he stands looking
helplessly down on Paul's bed.

"No, Doctor, no," the violinist repeats,
his eyes glittering.

"Be calm," the Giant remarks, "I will
see you to-morrow morning."

There are no songs in Salle Verdun that
night, only the sound of Paul crying into his
pillow. I think he cried until the dawn put a
shimmer on the high ceiling. When I awoke
I thought of those Sunday morning musi-
cales at Lyon — "Werther" and "Carmen."

My coffee is still too hot to drink when
the stretcher comes noisily into the ward.

48

THE TENDER MEMORIES

Thirty-seven helps Paul to get on to it.
He assures him the Doctor wants only to
look again at his arm.

The bright morning passes and our com-
rade does not come back. We read his
destiny in Grand 'mare's eyes.

"Le pauvre petit, mes enfants, they have
cut off his arm."

And then while we are softly talking it
over the irony of life transpires. A young
girl stands in the doorway — I have seen
her picture — she is his sister — under her
arm she is bringing a violin-case.

49

XV

"/'^'EST la guerre, mon cher ami, c'est
^^ la guerre," and Paul turns his head
and smiles on me.

"I know," he answers almost inaudibly,
"c'est la guerre."

It is the unfailing consolatory phrase
repeated a thousand times daily at the
front and in the hospitals — "C'est la
guerre," and somehow our sorrows are
adjusted.

Paul was a surprise to us all when two
days later he was rolled back into Salle
Verdun. His face was very hollow but he
smiled frankly and insisted that they push
his stretcher up and down the ward from
bed to bed so that he might shake hands
with each comrade. I was touched to hear
that nearly each one found something to
say to him — although the mere pressure of

THE TENDER MEMORIES

hands was poetry and eloquence. When he
came to Andre who has no hands they both
began to laugh.

"Mon Vieux, tous mes hommages," said
Andre, and waved his two stumps.

Paul was confused for a second, then
turned to Victor and said, "All the same I
am lucky, am I not?"

His sister came to see him that afternoon
and interrupted my Chinaman. She sat by
her brother's bed a long time — talking, talk-
ing, but never once a word about music.
The subject had been buried with Paul's
arm.

I thought of that sister riding back to
Lyon with the coffin-like box beside her,
when, after dark, Louis whispered to me
that the violinist was asleep.

XVI

T OUR de fete de la Vierge, and the golden
•^ air is a garden of bells. They come to us
through every window; large solemn notes
like the words of a Bishop ; little notes like
children running home. Grand 'mere wears
her best bonnet. She is kneeling in the
Chapel surrounded by every blesse who
can possibly walk. Louis begged to be
carried to the door on the stretcher. " To
hear the music," he whispered to me that
Paul might not wince. Victor, handsomely
combed, has gone to gather a smile from
Soeur Angdlique.

A year ago to-day comes back to me-
I was with my Captain at M^nil-sur-
Saulx. The morning was rainy, but the
sun appeared at the mystic hour and from
our window we saw the faded and tasselled
Virgin leave her candle-lighted shrine and,

S2

THE TENDER MEMORIES

lovingly carried on believing shoulders, pass
through the crooked streets, over the bridge
and along the river path.

The soldiers bathing in the reedy coves,
hid themselves in the flowering bushes as
she went chastely by. A dozen children
in muslin designed her path and a proces-
sion of old and young followed. My Cap-
tain and I were proud to observe among
the devotees our weird landlady — a thin,
wooden woman — wearing a remarkably
imposing hat. For a moment advancing
through the leaves I mistook it for the Vir-
gin. As the Captain said, the manner of
it was thirty provincial years behind the
fashion, but its amplitude was appropriately
scriptural.

Victor returned from Chapel pushing
Louis's stretcher with one hand. He had
winked, he said, to the Soeur Angelique.

53

XVII

\ X TE all read and Andre, who has but
^ one eye, amazes me by his studious
application. His bandaged nose is in a
book from morning until twilight. Often
when I open my eyes at six o'clock he has a
book in his hand and looks as though he had
been reading since the cock crew. Some
days he reads until Grand 'mere complains
that his soup is stone cold. I wondered
for a long time what might be the book he
found so entertaining ; " La Legende doree "
or an interminable history of France. I dis-
liked to ask, he was so profoundly occu-
pied. To-day he has suddenly thrown his
book upon his neighbor's bed and bitterly
announced that the last part is missing.
"Last part of what," I cry out and learn he
has for over a week been breathlessly pur-
suing the inexhaustible adventures of a cin-

THE TENDER MEMORIES

ema heroine — " Le Calvaire d 'une mere " —
"It is not bad," he assures me, "but it is
no use beginning because the last part is
lost." I agree with Andre about the folly
of approaching "Le Calvaire d'une mere,"
and pass my afternoon letting the supple
chain of "Le Lys Rouge" glide through my
brain.

Louis is reading (when he remembers it)
"Le Pecheur d'Islande" and Victor has
found a copy of "La Legon d 'amour dans
un pare." Paul rarely reads, that is, unless
his books are printed on the ceiling. He
was so immobile one day — although I
could see his lids rhythmically rising and
falling — that I asked him if he had ever
seen a Chinaman in velvet shoes tossing
cups into the air. He said, "No." I won-
wonder what he does see?

Gaston supplied us with a book written
by a typewriter on thin paper — very torn

ss

THE TENDER MEMORIES

and dirty. It passed surreptitiously from
bed to bed, and when anyone came into the
ward the reader hid it under his blanket and
pretended to be doing something else.

XVI II

^ I ""HE Vaguemestre has brought me
proud news. My second citation.
I read it aloud, unabashed, to the ward.
Grand 'mere stands smiling at the foot of
my bed. Louis and Victor stretch out a
hand. From nineteen beds I receive a
storm of fehcitations. I propose we have
a fete to celebrate the honor. It must be
sprinkled with Pinard. The ward is wide
awake at the idea, but, in concert, insist
that I shall be their guest. Grand 'mere
looks a little frightened.

"Mais oui, mes enfants, but wait until
the evening after I am gone, la Mere
Superieure would scold me if anything
should happen."

"But nothing can happen, Grand 'mere,"
a dozen voices protest.

THE TENDER MEMORIES

"Dame non, but wait until the evening."

So it is agreed. A couple of francs is
contributed by each man but I am not
permitted to add my share. And all the
afternoon, Thirty-seven and Frangois (the
strongest on legs), make five trips to the
"Grappe Doree," which they inform me is
across the street, returning each time twice
their natural size; two bottles in their trow-
ser pockets and two bottles under their
coats. The sleepy guard at the door sur-
mises nothing.

A wine cellar is established behind the
pulpit which stands under the bleeding
image. The tall Mere Superieure coming
into the ward finds us as innocently occu-
pied as usual, and goes out, her long beads
rattling, without smelling our secret.

Grand 'mere leaves us at her accustomed
hour a little lacking in serenity of mind.
The silver foxes are creeping under the

58

THE TENDER MEMORIES

beds and Victor, waving his tin cup in the
air cries, "Allons-y, mes gars ! " The cele-
bration is on the wing. Francois and Thirty-
seven, whom I suspect of having begun
the fete at the "Grappe Doree," fill the
cups. A pretty music of baby bells tinkles
from bed to bed, and the storm of felicita-
tions is again over my head. Louis, who
is forever humming, begins to sing lustily
"Vive le Pinard!" and the chorus rises
harmoniously.

Bottle after bottle is pronounced "dead."
In performing the service, Thirty-seven and
Fran9ois execute a dance, holding the bottles
over their heads like crowns or against their
chest like girls. We shout for a solo from
Remy — a Breton on the other side; he
sings in a sweetly modulated voice, "Quand
nous en serons au temps des cerises," and
we are touched a little foolishly for a dreamy
moment.

59

THE TENDER MEMORIES

Francois and Thirty-seven go about with
careless care. Darkness comes with the
mounting songs — I but vaguely distinguish
the beads along the wall — Victor jumps up
on his bed and bellows forth —

" Pour les poilus qui sont au front
Qu'est ce qu'il leur faut comme distraction
Une femme, une femme."

The moonlit shadow from the window makes
his naked legs shine like silver.

By ten o'clock we are all in our cups,
and defying any Nun or Doctor in Laval,
carry on a wild symphony of innumerable
songs; marching songs — naughty songs —
sentimental songs — half forgotten songs —
songs old as the souvenirs of the lilied Kings
of France.

We are twenty maimed soldiers, each with
a hidden wound under a forgotten bandage,
but shall we ever again be so young and
gay?

60

THE TENDER MEMORIES

Gradually the chorus grows less violent
— smoulders like autumn fires — flares —
dwindles — dwindles .

Louis is singing alone, "Je reve toujours
au temps des cerises," — and I am falling
asleep.

XIX

"VTELLIE has come to see me — charm-
ing, thoughtless, extravagant Nellie
has left her rose-hung villa by the sea, and
her "papillon spaniel" under her arm, come
to Laval to "cheer me up." The railroad
journey was long and dusty, but Nellie sits
beside me as fresh as the sapphires on her
fingers. Her presence gives me my first
experience of the delicious sensation of
being a hero. Her eyes are so tenderly
sympathetic; she would hear every detail
of my battle — my wound, and when I show
her the bullet which caused me so much
pain she begs its possession with a smile.

The afternoon seems more summer-like
than I have known with Nellie beside me,
gossiping of Paris and the guests in the
rose-hung villa by the sea. She has been
to a garden-party and she wore a Premet

62

THE TENDER MEMORIES

gown — "It isn't paid for yet — but it's
awfully pretty."

I like the vision of a garden-party float-
ing into our ward — I see the ladies walk-
ing under the trees. Mdlle. Rosamond has
given a concert in Madame Scott's salon and
sang like an angel — the proceeds are for
the wounded soldiers. In a dream I hear
Mdlle. Rosamond singing — I look around
at the quiet wounded soldiers.

The "papillon" is not at all socially
inclined toward Victor, and Nellie picking
her up like a skein of white wool, tosses her
into Victor's lap.

"Reste avec moi, mon coco cheri," Vic-
tor coos, while the "papillon" barks like a
real dog.

"Kitty, Kitty, Kitty — well come to your
mother," and the "papillon" is hiding her
pink nose in the lacey folds of Nellie's
bosom. Twenty blesses rather envy Kitty.

63

THE TENDER MEMORIES

Then like a cloud in a sunset sky Nellie
goes away, leaving fat melons, purple grapes,
books, flowers, and perfume on my bed.

64

XX

11 /TY wound heals rapidly and I can look
at it now without disgust. The Nurse
has removed the trough and the Doctor has
ordered me to try to walk a little each day.
I make my first attempt and am amazed
at the difficulty of managing crutches. It
amuses my comrades ; their words of encour-
agement get me into the middle of the room,
and there I am overwhelmed with fear —
like an exhausted swimmer alone in mid-
seas. Thirty-seven who is watching, puts
his hand on my shoulder, and the dizziness
passes. Triumphantly I swing back to my
bed.

The next day it is less awkward and
before long I can almost run from the door
to the Christ. My knee is stiff and as yet
I dare not step on my foot, but little by

THE TENDER MEMORIES

little I master the apprehension and suc-
ceed in taking a clumsy step. Others are
also learning to walk; we make visits to
distant bedsides and shake hands for the
first time with dear old friends.

One twilight, to ripple the dead water
of a homesick hour, I plan a tour de force
for my comrades. It succeeds beautifully
although it obliges me to omit my little
strolls for several days. Getting out of
bed I balance myself between the crutches
and as usual swing out into the room. All
the pillows watch dreamily ; when I turn to
regain my bed I deliberately let fall with a
loud crash my crutches and as a cripple
risen from the fountains at Lourdes, pro-
ceed to walk, holding my head like an April
gentleman parading the Champs Elysees.

"A miracle ! a miracle ! a miracle ! " My
point is made — we are laughing in Salle
Verdun.

XXI

OHE waited for a long time in the door-
way gazing into the ward. Then she
came slowly in and stood by R^my's bed
looking down on him but not speaking.
It was grown dusk; Grand 'mere had gone
home. I could see that she was a sweet
woman with that ineffable quality which we
call "motherly." A strange sadness hung
over her like a long veil. Vaguely and
never speaking she passed from cot to cot
pausing at each and scrutinizing dreamily
its occupant. She was obviously seeking
some one. Passing by the Christ on the
wall she crossed herself.

"What may I do for you, Madame?" I
broke the silence as she lingered by me.

"My son" — was her only answer.

"Who is that lady," I asked Louis when

THE TENDER MEMORIES

she had drifted into the shadows of the
corridor.

"She is insane," he replied, "she used
often to come here — her son was missing
four years ago, after the Marne."

"That is very sad," said Victor tenderly.

68

XXII

T HAD forgotten the sky could blossom
so blue — I had forgotten the trees were
so lovely — and the garden was to me like a
gay surprise when with Victor to-day I went
out of doors. And Remy and Francois and
Paul on a stretcher, and Thirty-seven came,
too, and Grand 'mere brought us blankets
and we lay together singing and jesting
under the tall trees.

The warm smell of the earth was good;
on the curving flash of the birds we went
over the leafy wall with the summer airs.
Other blesses from other wards joined us
wearing red and orange jackets. I fancied
we looked like a group of zanies waiting in
a green tent for the passing of some tinkling
caravan.

Grand 'mere put her head out of the win-
dow talking of sunset and dew, and Paul

69

THE TENDER MEMORIES

was carried in. Victor and I walked through
the gardens and rested on a stone seat by
the fountain. Silver water dripped from
under the feet of a Virgin, making a mur-
mur as one telling beads, while falling
asleep. The Madonna's slippers were so
overstained with emerald moss that they
looked as though one of the Magi had
bought them from a wizard in a dancer's
bazaar at Damascus.

XXIII

TT was — and so I record it. Poor little
golden Grand 'mere for whom I believe
any one of us would have given his life at
the moment the blow fell.

At three o'clock she was sweeping under
the beds and answering quite gaily our silly
questions as to what might a Cure wear
under his solemn cassock, and did the Sceur
Angelique sleep in her wide stiff bonnet?
I remember she told us the romance of the
poor little "sister" who fell in love with
a blesse — two years since — and married
him — going to London to be "undressed."
Victor was very facetious over this story, and
we all laughed heartily, even Paul who never
laughs. And then, while Grand 'mere, still
rosier from her sweeping and laughing was
standing by my bed leaning on her broom,
Marie-Louise came running into the ward

THE TENDER MEMORIES

as grey as dusty alabaster. Her hat was
in her hand, which, I felt, surprised Grand '-
mere even more than her pallor. The
broom dropped with a sharp report and we
saw the tragedy of the world gather into
one poor little wrinkled face. They stood
clinging together as women in a storm and
Grand 'mere's loud weeping was the lashing
sea breaking over them.

"Dead! my Joseph — my Joseph — my
Joseph!"

It was then that twenty wounded soldiers
would have willingly put their lives under
Grand 'mbre's feet.

XXIV

^T^WO days later I left Laval — to be
with my Captain at Dinard. It was a
happy change for me but I left Salle Verdun
with regret and tears. Other surroundings,
other blesses superimpose other memories;
only Laval remains impearled and sacred in
my heart of hearts.

The vine-dressers, the masons, the blond
farmers are long since returned to vine and
wall and glebe; returned at least to sit in
their shadows. Paul is at home and Vic-
tor by the Mediterranean. The Nuns pray
beneath the Christ; the Virgin at the mur-
muring fountain hears no jovial songs or
cry of suffering soldiers. The songs, the
grief, the pain, fade in the stillness of pass-
ing days.

" Sweeter than a vanished Frolic
From a vanished Green 1

73

THE TENDER MEMORIES

Swifter than the hoofs of Horsemen
Round a ledge of Dreams."

Only here and in my heart impearled
and sacred forever — the tender, tender
memories.

Hospital 48

Rennes

1918

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